


Echoes of the Past

by pantsoflobster



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5+1 Things, Multi, but mixed with canonverse, in dreams - Freeform, modern!AU, so its sad but then its happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoflobster/pseuds/pantsoflobster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is history? An echo of the past in the future; a reflex from the future on the past." - Victor Hugo</p><p>Five who dreamed of the barricade, and one who dreamed of surviving it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same modern universe as my other fic, Hope is a Good Breakfast. It is a house (not of my conception) in which they all live, but this takes places farther in the future in a time where several relationships have begun and flourished and Marius and Cosette have moved to a place of their own. 
> 
> For the dreams, I kind of mixed book canon and movie canon and various canons because I don't really know why, it just happened that way.

_Chaos. Soldiers. Gunfire.  His friends holding carbines, climbing over haphazardly stacked chairs and tables to shoot at men in uniform. He didn’t understand, he wanted them to stop, it was dangerous, they could get killed, and if they got killed, he was alone, they were all he had. Combeferre was shouting, but no one heard him. He couldn’t tell if it was because the noise was drowning him out, or if there was no noise coming from his throat at all._

_Marius was close to the top of the barricade. A soldier was ready to kill him at point-blank range. Combeferre was screaming and no one could hear him. A boy in a long coat grabbed the soldier’s rifle and pulled it aside just in time for the bullet to pierce his own stomach. Marius was saved. A few moments’ time was lost and the soldiers were gone and Marius was on the ground cradling the boy in his lap. Combeferre recognized the face and his heart sank._

Combeferre awoke with a start, shifting the object that was weighing down his legs. His heart was pounding and his eyes felt damp. He had been asleep, upright on the couch with his head lolled backward, and his hand resting on Eponine’s head in his lap. He blinked at the brightness of the television that was playing low across the room, and then grappled for his glasses on the table. When he found them, he looked down at the dark hair in his lap and his breathing quickened. Eponine began to wriggle sleepily.

“What’s the matter?” she mumbled.

The question made him think. What _was_ the matter? “I…had a dream,” he said.

She turned over so that she was looking up at him. “What kind of dream?”

“A terrible one.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know, I…” His mind grasped at fleeting images to try to understand. “It was unlike any dream I’ve ever had before. Everyone was there, and it was… It looked like it wasn’t this century.”

“What century, then?”

“19th, I believe. There was a barricade in the street and soldiers were shooting at us and Marius almost got shot but then...” He trailed off, remembering the pain he felt watching what ensued.

“Then what?” She asked tenderly.

He laughed humorlessly. “It’s funny how dreams can feel so real that you can feel the pain of loss when someone dies.”

Eponine looked concerned. “Who died?”

Combeferre took a breath and tried to straighten the fuzzy details of the dream. “Well, there was a soldier about to kill Marius but then what looked like a guy our age grabbed the gun and pointed it towards his own stomach, and then Marius was on the ground with him and it turned out it was… you.”

She rolled her eyes and sat up so that she was next to him on the couch. “Of course I’m the one giving my life for Pontmercy.”

He smiled. “Well, now it just seems melodramatic but… it was horrible. He kissed you on the forehead and then Enjolras told me to help him carry you away and I could barely breathe and then I woke up. I was just so scared, everyone was in danger, I felt like I could lose everyone and then I did lose you, and-”

“It’s okay,” she said, taking his hand. “I’m right here. It was just a dream.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“It was just your subconscious manifesting your love and your worries for all of us. None of us are going anywhere.” She rested her head on his shoulder and he laid his on top of hers.

“I know, just- you know how dreams are.”

“Why don’t you go sleep in your own bed? It’ll be more comfortable than sleeping out here.”

“No,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to stay out here with you tonight.”

 

 

~~~

 

 

_Someone was missing. Courfeyrac could spot Joly and Bossuet, and Combeferre by the wine shop. He saw Marius, and Feuilly, but someone was missing._

_Jehan was nowhere to be found._

_They have him. They have him. Who has him?_

_They were going to kill him._

_He was pleading with Combeferre, pleading to go get him back, pleading to sacrifice his own life for Jehan’s. Combeferre went to speak with Enjolras. He didn’t know what to do._

_There was shouting from somewhere in the distance. It was his voice. “Long live the future!” Jehan was saying._

_From past the barricade he saw an awful orange light that was accompanied by a deafening bang, and-_

_It was the early hours of the morning. Enjolras was speaking. Courfeyrac couldn’t listen. Someone shouted something about ammunition._

_Combeferre was standing at the top of the barricade, reaching out to the other side desperately, pleading._

_“Gavroche, Gavroche, come back, come here-”_

_Gavroche was climbing into the No Man’s Land between the barricade and the soldiers across the street. He was picking packs of gunpowder off of uniformed bodies. The soldiers were readying their guns._

_Courfeyrac scrambled to climb the barricade, yelling Gavroche’s name. Combeferre tried to hold him back. There was a gunshot and the boy toppled backwards onto the ground._

_Courfeyrac broke free from Combeferre’s grip, his head spinning and his eyes swimming with tears. Before he knew what was happening he had Gavroche’s small body scooped up in his arms and he was rushing to lay him down on their side of the barricade. He couldn’t breathe. He felt strong and caring arms tighten around him as he sobbed and sobbed._

Courfeyrac shot up in bed and looked around frantically. He was in his room, in his bed. The cold of the cobblestone beneath his knees was gone. There was no barricade, no guns, no torn flags, no bodies. But he still couldn’t catch his breath. God, he hated dreams like that, ones that made it too hard to come back to reality once he woke up. He knew it was just a dream. He knew no one was dead. But he just really, really needed tangible proof.

He ran across the hall and began to rap on Jehan’s door, trying not to be loud enough to wake anyone else.

“Jehan,” he hissed. “Are you in there?”

A groan came from inside. Feet fell heavy on the ground and made their way to the door, which opened to reveal a sleepy Jehan. His hair was tousled and sticking in all directions. “Why wouldn’t I be in here, it’s three- _oof.”_

Courfeyrac let himself fall into his friend and he wrapped his arms around him tightly.

“What’s wrong?” Jehan said, returning the hug. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just had a bad dream,” he mumbled into Jehan’s shoulder.

“What happened?”

“We were like, soldiers in the 1800s, or, we weren’t soldiers, but we were fighting soldiers, and they were killing people, and they had you and they shot you and they killed Gavroche and it was just really, really bad.”

Jehan rubbed his friend’s back. “It’s okay, it was just a dream.”

“Who would shoot a kid like Gavroche? Or a guy like you?”

“No one,” Jehan said soothingly. “It wasn’t real.”

“I know, it just… felt really real.”

“They always do.”

Courfeyrac took a deep breath and extracted himself from Jehan. “Thanks.”

Jehan smiled and rubbed his arms. “No problem. Do you think you can get back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Well if you can’t, I’m right across the hall.”

Courfeyrac smiled. “You’re the best. Do you think Gavroche would respond if I texted him right now?”

 

~~~

 

 

_Musichetta was walking from the Café Musain, feeling an unspeakable dread in the pit of her stomach. The street was stained with blood and she wore no shoes. She was holding tight to a handkerchief that belonged to Joly, her hands shaking in fear of what she would find. There wasn’t anyone on the streets, only girls she knew scrubbing the cobblestone of spilt young blood._

_She gasped and hid her face when they passed the wine shop. They’d left Enjolras hanging from the window upside down, a red flag draped across his chest across the blood that stained his clothes. It was nearly barbaric, the state he was left in._

_She turned into an alley and came upon too many familiar faces, lined up on the ground, side by side. She could barely recognize them through her tears, but she first saw tiny, young Gavroche laid next to his sister. Sweet Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and then…_

_Musichetta dropped to her knees in front of her worst nightmare and let out a scream. It was something she’d never wanted to see but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. At least someone had had the decency to lay them next to one another.  She crawled over Joly, touching his face and smoothing his hair, then moving to Lesgle to caress his cheek. There was no life, no light in their eyes, and on their chests had bloomed red roses of blood. She kissed them both on the forehead, choking on her sobs and unable to breathe._

_How could they both be gone at once? Why had they thrown their lives away? Did they ever even stand a chance? What were they even fighting for?_

_She laid between them, as she had so many times before, and didn’t know how she could ever bring herself to get up. She couldn’t say goodbye._

Musichetta woke with a shuddering gasp, immediately wiping tears from her eyes. She hurriedly looked to either side of her. In the dark she could see the curve of Lesgle’s stupid bald head and could feel the weight of Joly’s on her shoulder. She exhaled and brought her arms to encircle them both, holding them tight to her breast.

She hadn’t had many nightmares since she’d met them. She couldn’t remember having any since they’d moved into the house. This was out of the ordinary and she couldn’t explain it. She wasn’t particularly worried about anything. In fact, she was happier than she could ever remember being. She kissed both her boys on the head, trying not to stir them, but Lesgle was a notoriously light sleeper.

He turned to look at her with a sleepy smile that faded when he spotted her tears.

“Hey,” he said, moving around so that he was on his stomach and leaning on her arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, laughing a bit. “Just a bad dream. It was just a stupid dream.”

He looked concerned. “You haven’t had a bad dream in a while.”

“I know, I don’t know where it came from, I…”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes!” she assured him. “I’m fine, it was… such a weird dream.”

He kissed her bare shoulder and the base of her neck. “Do you want to tell me about it? If you don’t, it’s fine, but-”

“It was like, historical fiction.” She laughed slightly at her own description.

“Mm?”

She shook her head while trying to remember the situation. She knew she could recall the who and the what, but the when, where and why were lost to her. “Everyone was dead,” she whispered weakly. “It looked like the aftermath of a battle. There was so much blood on the street, and Enjolras was hanging upside down from a window, oh god, it was horrifying...” She swallowed before continuing. “You were all lined up in an alley, I saw Gavroche and Eponine, and Jehan and Feuilly, and Courf and Ferre, and then it was the two of you and I lost it.”

Lesgle propped himself up on his elbows an brushed back her hair.

“I was crying so much,” she said, touching her eyes. “I guess that wasn’t just the dream.”

“We’re right here,” he said quietly. “Look, you’ve got a deadweight on your shoulder over there, he’s fine, and so am I.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Go back to sleep. We’re both right here.”

She took a deep breath and settled back into their pillows. Lesgle wrapped an arm around her waist and they drifted off, hyperaware of Joly’s breathing as well as their own.

 

 

~~~

 

 

_The first thing Grantaire saw was the wooden table his face was plastered to. He could hear a clear and commanding voice asking a question. “…you who killed the sergeant of artillery?”_

_And then a voice he recognized._

_“Yes.”_

_Grantaire lifted his head to see Enjolras, his back against a window, standing tall against an armed force with numerous firearms aimed at his person. His clothes were torn and his face was bleeding. Yet he looked more like a god than Grantaire had ever seen._

_“Take aim!”_

_The soldiers took their marks. Grantaire rose at once._

_“Vive la Republique!” he shouted, unsure of why that was his choice of phrase. In French, no less._

_He pushed by the soldiers and took his place next to Enjolras. He couldn’t let him die alone. He couldn’t continue to live if Enjolras died. What would he live for? “Take us both at one shot,” he requested._

_Enjolras looked surprised and unfittingly sad, but his face was still set with his strength and resolve._

_“Do you permit it?” Grantaire asked, just in case this was not how he wished to die._

_But Enjolras smiled, a melancholy thing full of tenderness and acceptance. He took Grantaire’s hand in his and held it tightly, giving him his answer. In the same moment, a dozen shots rang out._

Grantaire awoke and inhaled deeply. Shit. What was that? He never had dreams like that. His dreams were abstract and pointless, never that vivid. He could remember it all, everything he saw, every word that was said, every emotion that had played over Enjolras’ face…

It was all very Delacroix, he realized. The clothing, the muskets, the battered flag, the feeling of revolution… It was as if his subconscious had taken _Liberty Leading the People_ and mixed with it his life, his memories, and Enjolras.

It was actually rather beautiful. It should have been sad but it didn’t feel that way. It would have been sad to watch Enjolras die without being able to intervene. But he’d been able to cross the room and ensure his own death alongside the only thing he believed in. He might even call it a good dream. It felt right to die by his side.

But then again, he never wanted to see that look on his face again. Enjolras had looked beaten and broken, defeated and hopeless, full of guilt and regret, as if he’d failed.

Grantaire wished he’d known the story behind it. He wanted to know why Enjolras had looked like that, what had him with his back to a wall, cornered by an army with a red flag wrapped around his hand. Must’ve been some story, he thought.

But it was just a dream. He pulled his blankets up over his head and went back to sleep.

 

 

~~~

 

 

_This was the end. Everything he’d done leading up to this point had ultimately failed. His friends were dead and it was his fault. He could remember the shots and their bodies falling limp. He couldn’t remember if anyone had gotten away, but he knew it wouldn’t matter soon. He was about to die for his country. For him, this was the end._

_Enjolras stood tall in front of the window, red fabric bunched in his hand and blood trickling down the side of his head. The soldiers were asking him questions and he responded firmly and resolutely. Nothing mattered. It was over._

_But then a voice rang out, praising the republic, and asking they take them both at once._

_Grantaire was striding towards him, eyes wild and bloodshot, to fall in line at his side._

_“Do you permit it?” he asked. Enjolras felt his heart swell._

_Grantaire could have gotten away. He was none of their concern. He could have stayed put and waited until they cleared out, and lived the rest of his sad life knowing he had been right all along. But here he was, asking permission to die by his side._

_Enjolras didn’t know how to respond. He took the man’s hand and, of all things, smiled. He couldn’t say the words, but Grantaire needed to know. He needed to know that Enjolras was thankful, that he always cared, that he never really hated him at all, that in fact, he might have even-_

 

Enjolras sat up in bed and his head fell into his hands. He needed to breathe. The whirlwind of the dream he’d just woken from was still fresh in his mind. For some reason, he knew it had taken place in 19th century France. It wasn’t surprising, with his proclivity to study the era and his admiration for some of the figures of the time.  He’d had dreams of it before, of himself as a young and bright revolutionary standing on tables and rousing the people to follow him in rebellion.  Those dreams had been inspiring and driving, allowing him to see himself as something he admired and aspired to be.

But this one had felt awful. He had been a failed version of just that. He hadn’t seen it happen but he’d known, in that way some things are just known in dreams, that he had gotten Combeferre killed, and even Gavroche, and nearly all the others.

But not Grantaire. He had still been alive when Enjolras was facing his demise, and…

He needed to see him. They’d slept apart that night. Yes, it was just a dream, none of it was real, but he needed to see Grantaire.

He slipped from his room and read on the kitchen clock that it was nearing five in the morning. The sun would be rising soon. The sliding door to the backyard opened and let the cool air of an early June morning into the house. Enjolras stepped across the grass of their backyard with his arms wrapped around himself, the hems of his pajama pants becoming damp from the dew that was forming. He made his way toward the small structure that was Grantaire’s residence, and knocked lightly on the door.

Enjolras considered things and knew that there was next to no chance of Grantaire getting out of bed to open the door if he was asleep. So, he let himself in.

The dim light that the sky was beginning to give off made it easy to see the outline of Grantaire in his bed, an uneven lump covered entirely by blankets. Enjolras entered and sat on the edge of the mattress.

He was trying to figure out how to wake him gently when Grantaire began to stretch and turn, pulling the blankets down from over his face. The moment he opened his eyes they widened in shock and he scrambled to sit up.

“Shit, Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck are you doing?” he shouted, his voice comically high-pitched.

Enjolras laughed and put a hand on his leg over the blanket. “It’s alright, I just… had a strange dream and you were in it. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Grantaire ran his hand over his unruly hair a couple times to no avail. “That’s weird, I had a dream about you too.”

“Just now?”

“No, it was earlier, I woke up from it and then went back to sleep,” Grantaire said, settling down. “It was kind of nice, actually.”

Enjolras huffed out a laugh. “Mine was not nice. It was kind of awful, I’m pretty sure we both died in the end.”

At this, Grantaire furrowed his brow and straightened up. “We died in mine too.”

Enjolras leaned in slightly, suspicious. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said.

“In mine, I was a failed French revolutionary-”

“About to be shot at a window?”

“And you came and stood next to me, and-”

“Are you _fucking kidding me?”_

Enjolras weaved his hand into his hair and breathed, “Did we have the same dream?”

“How does that even happen?” Grantaire said.

“This is not possible, what the fuck, that’s not possible!”

“It must be some subconscious thought we share,” Grantaire said, shaking his head. “Or something?”

“Wait,” Enjolras said. “Did you say it was ‘kind of nice’?”

Grantaire was quiet for a moment. “Well, yeah.”

“We both died. I’m pretty sure all of our friends were dead. How is that nice?”

“I mean, _that_ wasn’t nice, but you were about to die and if I had been just a moment later I would have lost you, but instead I got to go out with you. And,” he added, softer, “you smiled at me.”           

Enjolras took the hand that had emerged from under the blankets. “I was trying to say something but I couldn’t. That was me trying to tell you that…” Enjolras trailed off.

“What?” Grantaire prompted.

“I was trying to say thank you, I guess, for all your faith in me. And I was trying to let you know I cared.”

Grantaire smiled and closed his eyes. “See, that’s why it was a good dream. I could tell. I got that message.”

“Well, good.” Enjolras pulled Grantaire towards him and brought their lips together. Grantaire wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of him.

“How the fuck did we have the same dream?” Grantaire whispered against Enjolras’s lips.

“I really have no clue,” he muttered.

Grantaire pulled his head back to look him in the eye. “I would die for you, you know.”

“I know,” Enjolras said, smiling between kisses. “I severely hope the opportunity never presents itself.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

“Marius.” Cosette was shaking his shoulders and his head was lolling back and forth. “Marius, wake up!”

Finally, his eyes fluttered open.

“What were you dreaming about?”

He blinked a few times and sniffed. “What?”

“You’re crying,” Cosette said, wiping tears from his cheek. “Were you dreaming about something?”

“I…” Images and sounds came back to him in a chaotic jumble. He tried to straighten them out and piece the story back together. “Barricade,” he breathed.

“What?”

“We were French, and we were old, well- we weren’t old, we were the same ages we are now, but it was old-fashioned everything, everyone was wearing like, cravats and waistcoats and these awful high-waisted trousers and everyone was getting shot and your dad was there.”

She stifled a laugh because she was sure it was very terrifying and not humorous at all. “My dad?”

“Yeah, he…” Marius drew his head back in confusion. “He saved my life.”

“Really?” she said. “From what?”

“Getting shot, I think. Or I did get shot. And he carried me away so that I didn’t get shot again, or...”

Cosette smoothed his hair back. “Why were you getting shot?”

“I’m not quite… sure, I think we were trying to start a revolution.”

Cosette continued to pet his head. “Enjolras?”

“Yeah, he was the leader…” He was quiet for a moment. “And then I was in a bed and you were there and someone told me all my friends were dead and I felt awful for not being there and I felt like I should have died too, but I don’t even know what they died for, and…”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, kissing him on the cheek and the forehead. “No one’s dead, we’re not French and you do not owe a life debt to my father.”

She could have been mistaken, but his reactions suggested that the most relieving thing was the last.

“That would be really bad,” he muttered.  

“Yes,” she said. “Now go back to sleep. We’ll go over to the house for breakfast, okay? You can be sure that all our friends are still alive and tell them that you love them enough to cry in your sleep when you dream that they’re dead.”

He made a strangled, embarrassed noise and quickly wiped his eyes again. “Okay,” he said.

They settled back into each other and Cosette waited for his breathing to even until she allowed herself to drift back to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this was painful to write i dont know how people write really sad things like it hurts so much and things turn out ok in every situation here how do you write things in which things turn out BADLY it must be so hard
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts, positive or negative I like feedback of all sorts


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